


Pebbles and Gems

by InjaMorgan



Series: HobbitCon Fanbook Collection [3]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, after BotFA, headcanon-dump, how does it look inside his head, very Bifur-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2015-02-17
Packaged: 2018-03-13 12:56:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3382322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InjaMorgan/pseuds/InjaMorgan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bifur reflects on the nature of his memories, and on how he might preserve those that matter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pebbles and Gems

**Author's Note:**

> Third time's the charm! Third ficlet for the infamous [HobbitCon Fanfiction Book Project](http://nelioe.tumblr.com/tagged/hobbitcon-fanfiction-project). And Bifur really needs some love, don't you think?
> 
> Again betaed by the lovely [Werpiper](http://archiveofourown.org/users/werpiper). You rock!

Memories, as Bifur learnt rather late in his life, were fickle things.

They were like small gems – precious, shiny gems. Sometimes they lost their inner light and turned into pebbles, meaningless and opaque, or they slipped through a hole in your pocket and were never seen again.

Bifur had many holes in his pockets. His gems had been scattered across half of Middle-Earth, but to some he had clung, and some he had even found again, here and there as he wandered from day to day.

It was some years between the axe’s fall and the next time he remembered his mother's scent as she hugged him, the taste of her stew, or that day when he held his little cousin Bofur for the first time. Such a small babe he had been, and Bifur barely old enough to hold him, but he had been careful, and his Auntie had looked so proud. She had told him that an older cousin could be just like an older brother, and that he had to promise to always take care of little Bofur.

He still did not remember was his mother's face, or his father's stern voice when Bifur had eaten something he shouldn't have. He knew that those memories had been there once, but he could not close the gap. Perhaps some day another plain pebble might suddenly shine.

The axe had stolen so many things. Bofur and Bombur had told him of the great knowledge about their ancient history of their people that Bifur once had held, its only remnant the antique Khuzdul dialect that he now spoke. Or that he had been one of the best dancers in all of Ered Luin and had demonstrated his skill at the princess' wedding, stealing Dís' husband from right under her nose and showing their Ereborian friends how the dwarves in the Blue Mountains celebrated.

Sometimes Bifur thought that his mind still held glimpses of that day, half-remembered tunes and a foot that tapped in the same rhythm, the laughter as his dear cousin Vali was twirled around like a lass.

Other things even the axe could never touch, like the warmth in his chest when a child held one of Bifur's toys. Young Fíli had been the first to get one of his more elaborate clockwork warriors. He still knew that Vali had smiled so brightly that he could have lit a thousand dwarvish halls when Fíli exclaimed that this warrior was Vali of Ered Luin, and not Durin, or his famous uncle Thorin Oakenshield.

Only some memories that remained were connected to Bifur's family. His first boar hunt with Bofur and Bombur, the way his mother had corrected his hand positions when he tried to form the word for “geode” in Iglishmêk. The silent image of his father's grey face, which Bifur had learnt from his cousins was the only thing he remembered from the Battle of Azanulbizar. He was grateful for that.

Another memory that Bifur almost stumbled over one day was that of his own wedding. It might have been years before or after that of his cousin, but he knew that his bride had worn a beautiful dark green dress, and that starlight had glittered in her auburn hair. There was also a feeling deep down in his heart that once he had been a father, but there was no image, not even the echo of a baby’s wailing or laughter.

He had forgotten their faces, their smiles, and how they had died.

Oh, Bofur had told him about it, in a quiet, serious voice, so unlike what Bifur was used of him. They had left with a trade caravan to go north to another settlement, with Vali as part of the guard to protect Bifur, his family and some more dwarves that were supposed to bring knowledge and supplies to the other village.

Not much was known of the fight, only that it must have been Orcs that left shortly after, believing all of the dwarves dead. They had stolen all the supplies and the draught animals, but did not defile the bodies, because then they would've noticed that one of their victims was still drawing breath.

Bifur had been the only survivor. Which should have been a great burden, but then he did not remember that fateful day, and sometimes he was actually glad he didn't. At other times, though, he wished he could at least recall the face of the Orc that had killed them, so he could finally take revenge.

The thought of revenge was like a burning under his fingernails, a fitful tearing at his limbs. Which was a strange feeling during those days when everything around him seemed to be made of smoke and dancing dust, and his mind was lost in itself. Even the memories that had returned to him were then inaccessible. Bifur had learnt that his cousins called those his “bad days”, although for him they weren't that bad. They were hollow and porous, endless and gyrating, peaceful and quiet. Not bad.

Other days could be bad though, truly bad. When Bifur knew where he was, and who he was, and what he was doing, then sometimes everything turned out to be too much. Too loud, too bright, too abrasive. The tiniest sound could make him wince, the smallest candle close his eyes and cover them with his hands to make it go away. The most comfortable fabric could make his skin itch and hurt like he had been burnt.

Those spells passed when he slept, thankfully. And they had gotten fewer over the years, and shorter. Bifur knew how to fight them by now, knew that it helped when he hummed to himself and listened to his own songs instead to the chatter of the dwarves outside his shop, and that flapping around his hands helped with the itchy feeling when he touched something new. Both Bofur and Bombur had told him that it sometimes frightened people, but what did he care for them?

It seemed to frighten only the adult dwarves, anyway. The little dwarf children that came to his new shop in the Upper Market of Erebor, were rather fascinated by the songs he hummed under his breath, and one of the girls actually imitated his hand movements when he had to flap them around because of a new carving tool that Bofur gave him. She then spoke to him using slow, halting Iglishmêk, to which he replied eagerly and chatted with her about this and that, about how nice their new home looked now and what had changed. She told him with a big smile on her face that they were flowers growing around a little memorial for the Dwarves, Men and Elves that died during the great fight against the Orcs of Angband, which was now called the Battle of the Five Armies.

He had seen the memorial already, of course, as his cousin had helped making it. Although, the flowers were something new. He liked flowers, their symmetrical patterns, the smell, the colours. He remembered that Kíli once told him that liking flowers was very undwarvish, to which he replied that such regular patterns as could be found in flowers and blossoms was, to the contrary, very dwarvish, and then showed him some nice examples. Kíli hadn't been entirely convinced in the end, but at least he was a little more open to seeing things with open eyes.

The image of having little Kíli sit on his knee and sharing some wisdoms about flower petals and leaves made his chest hurt, and when he remembered that he still had a real little girl standing in front of him, he asked her if she had read all the names on the long list of the dead, and if she knew about the two princes that died that day.

“Of course I do! People tell all kinds of stories about them!” she replied, and then waved when one of her friends tapped her on the shoulder to make her go with them to play outside the mountain.

Which left Bifur staring at the spot where the dwarven girl had stood, blinking as the pebbles and gems in his mind formed themselves to a new idea.

Then he took out a new piece of wood, and started to carve it into form.

He had worked constantly since then, the chips of wood soon covering the floor under his workbench like freshly fallen snow. There were already stories about them, yes, but he could feel the gems in his mind losing color with the time that had passed since the Battle, which now often happened, even with things that had happened after his injury.

He remembered some things vividly: How Fíli's hair had been just like his father's, but the laugh, Vali's laugh had just been like Kíli's. But other facets, which seemed to matter even more, were chipping away and fading. If there was anything he didn't want to lose, it was the fullest and brightest memory of those two brave boys and their uncle.

The figurines were small, only about as long as his hand, but he had put into them every detail he knew about the three dwarves. They still needed the right hair and clothes, but for that he could ask Dori. The faces though, those were just right. Kíli was grinning broadly, Fíli had that cheeky smile, and Thorin had the same expression on his face with which he had looked at Bilbo Baggins on the top of the Carrock.

Bifur arranged them on his workbench so they were standing and looking at him. These he would put on their graves, but the next he would give away to the children.

He would not, could not share all his gems, but he could share this, after all. And maybe let at least this gem could shine for the rest of his life.

**Author's Note:**

> I kinda stole the little thing with the dolls from determamfidd (or rather, her Askbox Conversations with her followers xD I hope she doesn't mind <3


End file.
